Toby
by blueskydog
Summary: A Pre-Reichenbach Adventure. A stray dog turns up on the front step of 221 B Baker Street. John knows that there's more to this dog's story than meets the eye, but Sherlock will have nothing to do with it. John tries to figure out where the dog came from, but there are some mysteries only Sherlock Holmes can solve...or so it seems.
1. Chapter 1

Prologue

She closed her laptop and rose from her desk slowly. She glanced around the room, at the disarray—the papers and books, empty coffee mugs, her living room and kitchen spilling over into one another so that she had trouble remembering which was where—and simply shook her head. Now was not the time. She couldn't deal with this mountain; she had to get over the other one first.

She walked over to her bedroom across the hall. Her tiny apartment seemed even tinier in the wake of her problems and the mess she'd managed to make in the past few days. What was happening to her? She used to have such an organized life—she used to have control over things. What was going on?

"Here boy," she called out suddenly, and her little dog came frolicking over. She knelt to let him lick her face as his tail swished through the air. "It'll be okay," she murmured in his ear—more for her comfort than his, as she tried her hardest to make his life, at least, stay relatively sane. He rubbed against her face causing her to laugh. He, at least, managed to not remind her of her problems.

"Come one, boy, let's get to bed," she said. He happily followed her to the bed and hopped up beside her as she flopped onto it. Rolling onto her back, she let him crawl onto her stomach. Though small he was not a lap dog, and though his mass made it difficult for her to breath, she still enjoyed his being there and let him stay. She closed her eyes, listening to his happy murmuring, stroked his fur, and began to drift off.

Her mobile buzzed just then. Startled, she jerked her head up, causing her dog to flinch and roll off her stomach. "Sorry," she muttered sheepishly, leaning over to dig her mobile out of the bag on the floor. Her dog watched as she flipped it open, the harsh, weird light casting over here face. He could see her face. And it was one of dread.

She stared at the text on the screen, her panic mounting. _No…no…no. They can't have. How could they have found me? It's a trick, it must be! _She sat up straight and tried to control her breathing. _It must be! _Her dog nuzzled her questioningly. She grabbed him in a hug, dropping the phone on the floor. Its harsh light ticked out.

"Mer-r-f," he dog said.

"Let's get out of here," she whispered fiercely. "Let's go for a walk," she said louder, to which he wriggled in joy, leaping from her arms and off the bed. Barking merrily, he danced over to the drawer that held his leash and collar. The woman climbed out of the bed and followed him, still shaking in fright. She had to get some air. Be anywhere but here. She had to go do something. She took her dog outside, leaving the still-open mobile on the floor, far, far from her.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter One

Stray dogs exist. Everyone knows that.

And quite unfortunately there are areas that are overrun with them, areas where pets are abandoned heartbreakingly frequently, and the uncontrolled populations keep spreading to the point that they are everywhere—in the street, in the alleys, in the parks…lost dogs, abandoned dogs, rejected dogs. There are places where such things were unfortunately common.

The only thing is Baker Street wasn't one of them.

And yet here he was, a scruffy little dog, skinny as a bone. He wasn't wearing a collar. He looked lost, abandoned. John Watson knew that look when he saw it. And it made him sad.

So—partially out of basic compassion for all life, and partially because John was a sucker for dogs—he walked up to it. The dog glanced at him but did not run away. He must be used to humans, John thought. He used to be a pet.

"Hello there," John said around an armful of brown paper grocery bags. Again the dog simply glanced at him as he sat on the sidewalk. It was then John noticed that the dog seemed to be staring at something. Coming closer, he tilted his head to see at the dog's angle, and saw: the dog was staring straight at the door labeled 221 B. And that's where John lived. That's where he was taking his groceries.

There was something unnerving in the intensity of the dog's stare. The dog looked so determined, as if expecting the answer to some unsolvable doggy question would come waltzing out of there at any moment.

"Hello," John said again, kneeling this time. The paper bags crinkled loudly in his grip and the dog leaped away, tail swishing apprehensively. John froze, staring, wishing the dog would stay. _Stay, stay, _his brain whispered; _I want to help you. _He couldn't bear to think of this poor little dog roaming the streets on its own. There were too many cabs—too many cars—too many things that could run this little dog down.

The dog stayed. He stared at John, then settled back down on his haunches, and cocked his head.

Was that an invitation to try again? Gingerly John laid his bags on the front step of 221 B and crouched next to them. Slowly he extended his hand, allowing the dog to come to him if he wished. The dog regarded him a moment. The he rose slowly, neck stretched toward the strange hand and nose crimping as he inhaled the scent of John. John held back a giggle as the dog's hot breath tickled his wrist. The cold, moist nose then pressed into his palm, as if accepting him as a possible ally. John carefully positioned his fingers under the dog's chin and gave him a scratch. The dog leaned into him, eyelids drooping, which John took to mean he liked it.

"Good boy," he said quietly. He dog's ear's pricked up at the sound. _He knows those words, _John mused. What kind of family had the dog lived in before being kicked out? Who would have the heart to praise a dog and then chuck it? Not very nice people, John reasoned.

There was, of course, the possibility that the dog was simply lost, looking for his home. In that case John was obligated to help him. He could turn him in. There were people who knew how to reunite dogs with their families. But what if he had been abandoned? Or—and this a possibility as well—what if the dog had run away from a cruel owner? In that case the last thing John wanted to do was reunite them.

What should he do?

The dog broke free of his massage and looked to the door. 221 B. Of course. Home of the world's only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes.

John grinned at the dog, flabbergasted. "Now how on earth did you know that?" he said. The dog's tail swished through the air at John's voice. _Let's go in, _he seemed to be pleading.

Well, why not? If anyone could solve the mystery of this dog's origin, it was Sherlock Holmes. He'd been bored lately, restless. He needed a challenge. He could probably tell who owned—or used to own—this dog just by looking at it.

John rose—slowly so as not to frighten the dog—and stepped up to the door. He wondered briefly if Mrs. Hudson had a "No Dogs" policy. _I suppose I'll find out, _he thought.

He unlocked the door, opened it, and glanced inside. The dog watched him expectantly. The hall was empty and there was no one on the stair. John stepped in. "Mrs. Hudson?" he called.

He heard a skittering behind him and turned to see the dog scampering into the house. "No—wait," John whispered fiercely, trying to catch him. But the dog evaded him merrily and danced down the hall, nose darting to and fro as he tried to smell everything at once, tail whipping back and forth.

John started after him, then remembered the groceries and turned around. But couldn't the groceries wait? There was a dog on the loose. He turned back. But no—he had to get the bags. Besides, he couldn't leave the door open. He darted out, grabbed the groceries, darted back in, tried to close the door, and promptly spilled the contents of his bags on the floor.

"Stupid!" he growled at himself. Now what?

He heard a yelp from the kitchen. Oh dear.

"Mrs. Hudson?" he called with trepidation.

"John!" came the high-pitched reply. John started for the kitchen. "There's a dog in here!"

"Coming," John called out. He stepped quickly into the kitchen to see Mrs. Hudson staring down at the dog, which stared up at her. Her clenched hands were held near her face as if to ward off an impending attack. The dog grinned and swished his tail.

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson," John said, "he slipped in while I was carrying in the groceries…"

Mrs. Hudson glanced at him fearfully. "Will it bite? Does it have rabies?"

"No," John said quickly, "I'm sure it doesn't have rabies."

Mrs. Hudson relaxed. "Oh dear, it did startle me though!"

"I'm very sorry," John said ruefully. He reached down to place a hand on the dog's back, as if that would somehow restrain it. The dog flashed him a smile. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

"Is it a stray?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "It looks…" she seemed to search for a polite description. "Peaky," she said.

"Ah, yes, well, it does appear to have been abandoned," John said. "I was just about to…" he stopped. He'd been about to say "have Sherlock take a look" but suddenly it occurred to him how ridiculous that idea actually was.

"Well, if it's got no home," Mrs. Hudson said—then finished her thought by turning to the fridge and pulling out a plate of something leftover from a previous night's meal. "Here, girl," she said coaxingly, lowering the plate to the floor. The dog sniffed it carefully, then began to gobble—he obviously hadn't eaten in days.

"Poor girl," Mrs. Hudson crooned. "Left alone, were you?"

"Boy, actually," John said—"It's a male."

"Oh." Mrs. Hudson nodded. "Poor boy," she corrected herself.

Suddenly John remembered his groceries. "I seemed to have made a bit of a mess in the hall," he said apologetically. "If you could watch the dog a moment…"

"Of course, dear," Mrs. Hudson said, distracted watching the dog devour its lunch.

John slipped out and managed to scoop the groceries back into the bag. Hurrying upstairs, he thought of how to word his request. "Found a dog," he pictured himself saying. "So?" came the immediate imagined reply. Of course. Even in his imagination Sherlock always got the better of him.

"What is it?" Sherlock snapped as John stepped into the room.

John jumped and became immediately defensive. Of course his plan had been to ask Sherlock a favor, but that his flatmate was automatically _assuming _the second John entered the room—and that it was bound to be an unworthy request—set him on edge.

"Nothing," he said back to the pajama-ed man sprawled on the couch. "Just brining in the groceries—anything wrong with that?"

"Not at all," Sherlock said. He rolled over to prop his elbows on the back of the couch, following John as he made his way to the kitchen. "But the manner in which you have been 'bringing them in' is rather suggestive of something's having happened."

Of course that was true but John found himself demanding "How so?"

Sherlock smirked. "First, there was something at the door holding you back. You had trouble opening it, which is unusual—"

"With an armload of groceries?"

"That typically you are able to balance without trouble. I could hear you struggling with the key." John noted the window was open to let in the summer breeze. Of course Sherlock would hear what had happened. "Furthermore, you called Mrs. Hudson's name as you entered, which you would not do unless seeking assistance for something. After which you dropped the groceries, and as you are usually more competent than that (John had to remind himself that was a compliment) there must have been something else demanding you attention that caused you to start. In that case it must be fairly pressing. And as you hurried away from Mrs. Hudson after that and up to me it is obviously something she could not resolve for you. Am I not right?"

John finished putting the groceries away and turned to stare at the smug detective. "So you heard me drop the groceries and didn't bother to come help me?" he demanded.

Sherlock waved a hand. "Obviously it didn't bother you that much, as you ran into the kitchen rather than cleaning the mess you'd made."

John couldn't smother his irritation. "Well, if you know all that, why don't you tell me what it is I want?"

"I deduce, John, I do not read minds."

"Well then, _deduce_ what I want."

Sherlock leaped over the couch and grabbed John's arm to keep him from running. "There's the hairs of a small mammal on you shirt sleeve," he said. "And you pants are dirty at the knees from kneeling. You've been playing with someone's pet, perhaps you met a friend walking their dog and stooped to pet it? No—you don't have any friends. "He brushed off John's protest. "Don't dilute my train of thought! No, that doesn't explain the kitchen. Aha, you let it in the house, didn't you?" His look of triumph receded almost immediately, replaced by a furrowed brow, which was replaced almost as quickly by a hard glare.

"You're not keeping it," he said sullenly.

John broke free of his grip. "Never said we were," he shot back. "I just want you to look at it."

Sherlock scowled. "What for? Does it have a pressing case for me?"

"No, but—" John searched his mind. If he used the right words, it might intrigue his friend. "It _is _a mystery," he said tentatively.

Sherlock snorted. "I don't save lost pets. You ought to know that by now."

He always saw through him. "No, I mean, yes, I mean—" he sighed in frustration. "You had fun just now, didn't you? Figuring out what I wanted? Why not just stretch the deductive muscles a bit and find out where this dog came from?"

"What will it bring me?" Sherlock turned and flounced across the room. "Dogs are dull."

"It's a stray. It's lost. I just want to find its home."

"Try the pound."

"Sherlock," John said, exasperated, "it's not going to _hurt _you."

Sherlock sighed petulantly. "Perhaps it will be more interesting than you are," he said.

John leaned forward, surprised. "So you'll look?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It will be so obvious," he muttered. "Honestly, what has happened to all the good murderers? I'm too efficient for my own good."

John didn't like that mutinous look, and the words he spoke were too similar to those spoken right before a certain criminal mastermind decided to blow up their flat just for fun. "Sherlock," John warned. "It's better than shooting the wall."

"In your opinion," Sherlock snapped back.

John glanced quickly at the wall but was relieved to see it had no new wounds. "Come on, Sherlock," he said. "Just do it for me—and then…"

"I'll be bored again." Sherlock growled in frustration. "Alright, it's better than nothing. Where is it?"

John relaxed. "In the kitchen."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Two

It occurred to John that in the time it had taken him to convince Sherlock to take a look at the dog, Mrs. Hudson might have done something with it—begun to comb is messy fur, or even worse, give it a bath. He hurried into the kitchen with Sherlock trailing after him, and sighed with relief when he saw Mrs. Hudson merely giving the dog a belly rub next to the now-empty plate.

"Hello, boys," she said with a smile. "He's such a sweet little thing."

"I thought so too," John said. He glanced at Sherlock, who was walking in brooding circles around the kitchen, half-staring at the dog and half-glaring at John.

"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said suddenly; "Shoes!"

"Not wearing any," Sherlock said.

"Exactly my point. Your feet will be cold."

"Not likely this time of year."

"The floor's cold, though."

"Excellent, Mrs. Hudson, but I'd already deduced that."

John was about to intervene, but stopped when he saw Sherlock jump slightly. They both looked at the floor to see the little dog sniffing at Sherlock's bare feet. John stifled a snicker when he remembered the feeling of that cold nose on his hand.

"What-?" Sherlock stepped away from the dog, but it followed him, tail swinging merrily back and forth. Sherlock backed away again and the dog continued to pursue him. There then ensued a hilarious but all too short little dance, with Sherlock dodging and the dog leaping and lunging, grinning all the way. Sherlock dashed behind John, swung around Mrs. Hudson, and finally leaped onto the counter, perching like a hawk and glaring down at the dog. The dog stopped directly below him, looking up and panting with a look that could only be described as smug.

_The great Sherlock Holmes, bested by a dog, _John thought, but didn't dare saw it out loud. "Here, boy," he called instead, moving in the grab the dog and pull it gently away. "Leave Sherlock alone."

Sherlock shot him a glare. "Ah, now you control it?"

"Sorry," John lied.

"What's this about, now?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "Sherlock, are you keeping this dog?"

"No!" Sherlock said with force.

The dog sneezed in John's arms. Mrs. Hudson glanced from it to the detective on her kitchen counter. "What's going on then?"

"Ask John," Sherlock snapped. "It was his brilliant idea."

"Oh, come off it," John said. "So the dog likes you."

"Dogs don't like people, John. They're automatons created for the enjoyment of their 'owners' and they take advantage of our sympathies."

John rolled his eyes. "So, just tell me where this devious little automaton came from, and I'll free you of its torturous presence."

"Will you restrain it this time?" Sherlock growled.

"Yes, of course I will," John said. "I won't let it scare you again."

"I was not frightened. I simply have no desire to let an unfamiliar, mucus-encrusted nose to come into connect with my aforementioned _bare feet."_

There was absolutely no teasing Sherlock. "Alright. Let's get this over with," John muttered.

Mrs. Hudson raised a hand. "Hold on a moment. Cute as it may be, that dog is not going to go on my counters."

"Sherlock can examine it on the floor," John suggested.

"I'm not coming down," Sherlock said.

John shrugged. "Either you come down to it, or it comes up to you...and Mrs. Hudson doesn't want the dog on her counters."

"Hold it up to me," Sherlock commanded.

This was getting ridiculous, but if it allow Sherlock to fulfill his promise, then so be it. Gingerly hefting the dog into a secure position, John held him out to Sherlock. The dog squirmed slightly as it tried to sniff him. Sherlock jerked away.

"He won't bite," John said.

"I told you," Sherlock said. "Mucus."

He leaned towards the dog, who, this time, merely stared back. At first Sherlock was too careful, simply looking and not trying to get closer. But John saw the moment that the detective in him took over. His gaze hardened, but, strangely, grew misty at the same time. He ran his fingers through the fur at the dog's neck, ignoring it as he tried to slurp him. He picked up the dog's paw and separated his toes to look in between them. He checked the dog's pads and riffled through his fur. He looked like a vet doing a customary check-up. The dog seemed to think so too, as he relaxed in John's arms and made no more efforts to sniff or lick Sherlock, even when the detective parted the dog's lips to examine his teeth.

"Pet," Sherlock said. "Two years old, lives with a well-to-do single woman in her twenties. Apartment dog. Not used to the city, never been here before. Pampered shamelessly. Been lost two days."

John gaped at him. Sherlock leaped from the counter and started to leave the kitchen.

"Wait," John said incredulously. "How on earth do you know all that?"

"John," Sherlock said petulantly. "Surely by now—"

"How?"

"You asked to me figure it out, not to tell you how I did it," Sherlock snapped. "Use your mentality!"

"Sherlock," John said. "For all I know you just made that up to get me off your back!"

Sherlock hissed and stormed back to John's side. He pointed to the fur around the dog's neck. "Stunted," he said. "Dog used to wear a collar. It's still noticeably shorter than the rest of the dog's fur, so he hasn't been without it for long." The dog turned his head to look at Sherlock as he continued. "The fur on his back and sides is dirty and matted, but only on the surface. Below is a clean, smooth coat, expertly groomed. The dog is usually kept scrupulously neat. Only since his escapade to the city has it been otherwise. The debris gathered is all fresh and has not penetrated far, but there is more than could be got in one day. So, two. Not enough for three. Hints of pink nail polish on his toes. As it is a male dog that hints that his owner is a female. Only a girl in her twenties would do such a thing, as she would be living alone. Teens would be reprimanded by their parents. The nails are also well-trimmed, not simply blunted by walking on the sidewalk. Only slightly ragged from the streets of London. The pads are soft and tender, slightly blistered now, as they are used to walking on carpet or soft grass. So, it is an indoor dog. The only time it ventures out is to the parks, which have grass and sand paths, no asphalt. Owner lives in an apartment, takes a cab to the park. If she can pay for all this special treatment for her dog she is either foolish, wealthy, or single with no children, most likely a combination of the three. As for its age, anyone can deduce that by an examination of the dog's teeth. All this is fairly obvious. What it implies is that the dog is either lost or has been abandoned by its bored owner. Finished?"

John simply stared. He'd expected something much more vague, just a general idea of what had happened or where the dog might be from. But this was Sherlock Holmes; he should have expected more.

"So, turn it into the pound," Sherlock said. "Tell him what I just told you. They'll deal with it then."

"Sherlock, you're fabulous!" Mrs. Hudson cried. "And it wasn't even a murder!"

"Yes, John, try a bit harder next time," Sherlock grumbled.

"We're going too fast," John objected. "We still don't _know _that the dog was abandoned."

"Why else would it be wandering about?" Sherlock asked.

"Maybe he's lost," John said. "With all that pampering you deduced, she—the owner—obviously loves him quite a bit. She wouldn't dump him then."

"She got tired of him," Sherlock said with a wave of his hand.

"Look, Sherlock, I know it seems weird to you, but some people actually like the companionship their 'automatons' can give them."

"Then she wouldn't have let him escape, would she? Besides, there are no LOST DOG ads circulating the city."

John looked quickly at Mrs. Hudson. "Aren't there?"

Mrs. Hudson glanced nervously between John and Sherlock. "I…didn't see any, no."

"Not yet, anyway," John said.

Sherlock smirked. "Please, John. If she truly did _enjoy _it, why wouldn't she advertise for it?"

"Maybe she hasn't gotten around to it. Maybe she has and we just haven't seen any. You said he lived in an apartment in town. Maybe she put them up over there, not over here."

"Please, John!" Sherlock gave a groan. "Stop trying to be clever and send that thing to the pound."

John glared at him. "No, I won't. I'm putting an ad in the paper—Dog Found. I want the dog to get back to his home!"

"That's what the pound is for!"

"We found the dog first," John argued. "It's customary for the person who finds it to advertise after it."

"That dog," Sherlock said slowly and firmly, "is not staying here."

"Right. Only until we find his owner."

"Not at all!"

"Mrs. Hudson," John said, ignoring Sherlock, "you wouldn't happen to have a 'No Dogs' policy, would you?"

Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Not that I know of," she said.

"John," Sherlock warned.

John stroked the dog's head, and the dog squirmed in pleasure. "In that case," he said, "we'll need room and board for one more at 221 B—"

"John!" Sherlock snapped.

John turned to him and smiled. "Thank you for your deductions," he said. "The sooner we find the dog's owner, the sooner the dog leaves."

And he walked out, still carrying the dog, to take it for a quick trot.

"Oh dear," said Mrs. Hudson. "That sounded rather like a threat, didn't it?"

Sherlock tossed his head imperiously. "I don't care what it was," he said. "But John's not getting any more help from me."

**Author's note**

So here's chapter two. Any thoughts? Comments? Suggestions? Were Sherlock's deductions okay? Don't worry, there will be more mystery later. Please review!


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Three

"Abe?"

"Albert…"

"Atticus."

Back on the couch, Sherlock tried his best to block out the voices of John and Mrs. Hudson coming from the kitchen in his flat.

"Barney."

"Bruno."

"Buster!"

"Buster? Hey, Buster?"

"No, I don't think that's it."

"Oh dear, he did look so interested when I said it!"

"Don't sound so excited when you say it. He's responding to your tone."

"Oh, alright. Cassie?"

"Cal."

_Enough! _Sherlock thought.

"Come on, Sherlock," John called. "Help us out."

"I have no desire to join you in your asinine activities," Sherlock retorted.

"You wanted the dog to be clean," John said. "So, we're giving it a bath."

The dog made some irritating noise, and Sherlock could hear water slosh onto the floor.

"Do you have to be quite so _noisy_?" Sherlock rolled onto his stomach and thrust his chin onto the pillow.

"We're trying to figure out what his name is," John called back. "We're going through the alphabet."

"I deduced as much. Dogs don't need names, John."

"We have to call him something."

"Call it dog. That's what it is."

"Haven't got to the D's yet."

"Dog isn't a very nice name," Mrs. Hudson added. "It's so impersonal."

_As it is a dog, and not a person, it does stand to reason, _Sherlock thought, but decided not to waste his breath.

Lestrade had texted him earlier about a case, but Sherlock had texted back: Boring. He didn't know which was worse, though, being bored on a case with the incompetent Lestrade or being bored in the flat with…John and this dog thing.

He still could not understand why they had to keep it.

"Donny."

"Dovey."

"Edgar."

"How is this even going to work?" Sherlock hollered at them. "It's a dog. It hasn't any idea what you're saying!"

"When he hears his name, he'll react," John said. "All dogs do."

There was a tremendous _splash _and John and Mrs. Hudson burst into laughter. The dog barked and Sherlock heard its paws scrabbling across the floor. He jerked up to look over the back of the couch. The dog had come into the sitting room. Sopping.

"John!" Sherlock shouted.

A very wet John stumbled over…laughing. Sherlock simply could not understand. If _Sherlock _had been the one to get John sopping, John would have bitten his head off.

"Come 'ere, you!" John said, and to Sherlock's surprise the dog hurried over to John, tail whipping back and forth, sending soapy water particles flying. John hefted the dog into his arms as Mrs. Hudson came out of the kitchen holding a towel. She too was dripping wet but laughing.

"Oh, what a silly boy," she said as she began to towel the animal down.

_Oh what a nuisance! _ Sherlock thought.

John sat on his chair with the now-dry dog resting on his feet. John closed his eyes, liking the feeling of the warm mass covering his slippers, the feeling of his stomach rising and falling as he slept soundly. The poor thing must have been exhausted. He'd been obviously hungry, too, but John was apprehensive about feeing him too much too soon. It wasn't healthy. And he could only imagine Sherlock's reaction if the dog were to vomit on the floor.

"Kitchen's cleaned up," Mrs. Hudson said, walking over to sit on the couch next to a still-sulking Sherlock.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," John said. "I'd've helped had he not fallen asleep on me."

Mrs. Hudson waved the comment away. "The poor dear's simply drained. It must be so hard for him, being away from home. Especially when his owner sounds like such a nice girl."

Sherlock snorted. "It can't miss its home," he said. "Home is wherever there's food. It probably doesn't even remember its old owner."

John rolled his eyes. He didn't even bother to argue with Sherlock. He would never understand the affection dogs could feel for their humans, unless he felt it for himself, which was about as impossible as…he didn't even know what.

Mrs. Hudson smiled as she watched the dog curl himself more tightly around John's ankles. "He's taken a liking to you, John," she said.

John smiled back, a bit shyly, and looked down at the dog. "Yes, well, he does seem to trust me well enough."

"Dogs just know good people when they see them," Mrs. Hudson said.

"Rubbish," Sherlock said. "Dogs know food when they see it. That's all that matters to them."

"Oh, really?" John said.

"Obviously," Sherlock snipped. "You fed it, so of course it wants to keep you nearby. It knows where food comes from."

"I should think there's a bit more to it than that."

"Nothing whatsoever."

Despite his irritation John had to grin. There were some things Sherlock just refuse to understand. He decided to change the subject.

"I'll be working on that ad as soon as he gets off me," he said. "Let's hope his owner reads the _Times._"

"Everyone reads the _Times_," Mrs. Hudson said.

"Not Sherlock. He makes me read it for him." John laughed.

"Newspapers are a waste of time when they hold only useless information," Sherlock said.

"So I sort out the useless, is that it?"

"Yes, John, and how good you are at it."

John frowned, not liking what that implied.

"So did you find its name yet?" Sherlock asked with a sarcastic smirk.

"He fell asleep on the R's, didn't he?" Mrs. Hudson said, looking at John.

John nodded. "He's not a Robin, a Rover or a Rupert."

"Perhaps he'll be a Sam, or a Toby," Mrs. Hudson said.

"What happens when you run out of names and he doesn't respond to any of them?" Sherlock asked.

"Then we'll assume we've skipped the right one by mistake," John said, refusing to let Sherlock get to him. "It'll be great help if we can put that on the ad: 'Answers to Sam', or 'Answers to Toby.'"

The dog jerked in his sleep. John stared at him in surprise, then looked at Mrs. Hudson.

"Was it…?" he asked.

"Toby," Mrs. Hudson said. "You said—Toby."

John looked back at the dog. Mrs. Hudson let out a muffled squeak of anticipation as John leaned toward him and said softly, "Toby?"

The dog raised its head sleepily and blinked at him. John said the name again. The dog's tail thumped against the floor.

"Toby!" Mrs. Hudson cried in excitement.

The dog leaped up and frisked over to her. She leaned forward to stroke his face. "Oh, dear, it's a Toby! Oh, wonderful!"

"Toby," John called again, in a careful monotone, just to see—and still the dog turned to him, eyes bright and alert. "We've found it," he said triumphantly. "We've found his name." He risked a glance at Sherlock.

"Marvelous," he said. "A T name. Well. What on earth's wrong with Abe?"

**Author's Note**

I hope everyone is in character. I do love the books and tend to stray in their direction a bit. Please let me know what you think.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Four

"Have you written the ad yet?"

John finished putting on his left shoe and started on his right. "Yes, Sherlock," he said. "Just about to send it off."

The dog named Toby watched John expectantly as he finished with his shoes and straightened up. He wagged his tail, a little tentatively it seemed to John, as if asking, _Are you taking me along? _

Sherlock appeared from the kitchen, reverently clutching a jar of…something John didn't want to think about. "What are you doing?" he asked, eyeing John as he tied a string around the dog's neck.

"Taking Toby out," he said.

"You send you were going to send out the ad."

"It's on my laptop. I'll send it to the paper when I get back."

"The sooner you send it, the sooner that dog goes home," Sherlock said, almost threateningly.

John finished his knot and stood with the string in his hand. He turned to Sherlock. "And if I happen to meet Toby's owner in the street," he said, "I won't have to send it at all."

Sherlock snorted. "You expect to recognize her off the miniscule details I scavenged?"

The details he'd scavenged were far from miniscule, but John decided to ignore that point. "Toby will know his owner when he sees her," he said.

"You'll trust a _dog_ to tell you you've found what you're looking for?" Sherlock said "dog" the way he usually said "Lestrade."

"He'll know her when he sees her," John repeated, irritated. "You said yourself he's been her pet for two years. He ought to know what she looks like—and smells like."

"Fine, then, bet your life on a dog. And good luck with it." Sherlock returned to his coffee table littered with implements of scientific destruction.

As John started out the door (Toby frisking happily beside him) he heard Sherlock's mobile give a chirp. He froze, as that meant only one of two things: A text from Mycroft (never good) or one from Lestrade (which would either be immediately dismissed or else be a bad sign as well).

And taking the sound of Sherlock's whoop, he was guessing: Lestrade. Bad news.

"What is it?" he asked with trepidation.

"Ha!" Sherlock said. "At last, something worth my time." He swept past John to yank his coat off the rack—despite the fact that it was summer and he wouldn't need it. "Lestrade has a case for us," he said.

At John's knee Toby pricked his ears.

"What sort?" John said.

"Blackmail."

"What's so special about that?"

"No proof."

"Then how-?"

"That's why he called me." Sherlock ran down the stairs. "Come on!"

"Alright, settle down," John said. He watched Toby carefully as he waddled eagerly (but painstakingly) down the stairs. "We're coming."

Already halfway out the door, Sherlock froze. "We?"

"Well, I thought I'd take Toby along."

"What for?" the detective's voice was scathing.

"He needs a walk." Toby missed a step and took a brief tumble, but John caught him. "Might come in handy?"

Sherlock turned to watch him as he laboriously helped the mutt down the stairs. "Handy," he repeated.

John looked from him to the dog, flustered. "You never know!"

He could see Sherlock was too impatient to argue. "Fine! But I'll have nothing to do with it. It's your responsibility!"

"Alright," John said. He sighed with relief as Toby landed safely on the ground floor. "Mrs. Hudson," he called into the kitchen, "we may be late coming home."

"What is it this time?" she called back amidst noises of rattling pots.

He saw Sherlock swaying impatiently in the doorway and tried to be brief. "Blackmail," he said.

"Oh?" Mrs. Hudson sounded confused. "What's so special about that?"

"PROOF!" Sherlock bellowed at her. "John, let's GO!"

"Coming!" John and Toby hurried after him as he swept out the door and down the street.

The little dog bounded happily along as if enjoying the excitement. Sherlock hailed a cab and plunged inside. John followed him, and Toby—proving Sherlock's deductions about riding cabs to the park—leaped in beside him. John was forced to smash into Sherlock lest he be crushed by the dog's energetic weight.

"Elegant," Sherlock said.

"Sorry," John mumbled, sliding back into place. Toby put his paws up on the window and watched the scenery go by. His tail swished against John's shoulder.

Sherlock sat staring at the back of the cabbie's head but John could tell he couldn't see it at all, but was picturing something else entirely.

"Details?" John prompted.

Sherlock blinked. "What?"

"Are you going to tell me what the case is?"

"I already did."

"That's not much to go on."

"It's enough for me."

And that was that.

* * *

John was compelled to sit on a bench a few blocks away from the office of the Yard as Sherlock went over the details of the case with Lestrade. He'd taken Toby in but the poor dog had gone crazy, yelping and dashing about. John had cursed himself as he'd hurried back outside. That was no place for a dog; too many unfamiliar smells, sounds, and sights, people everywhere—it was too much for a dog, especially one so used to the solitude of an apartment and the tranquility of the park.

Toby had finished exploring the much-less-overwhelming bench and surrounding sidewalk and had settled down on his haunches next to John's feet, watching the hustle and bustle of people going up and down the walk and in and out of the Yard. Occasionally his ears would prick and he'd stiffen, as if hearing a familiar sound. At these points John watched him closely, but so far Toby hadn't attempted to approach any of the multitudes of twenty-something women.

Sherlock walked out of the building and over to John. His footsteps were brisk and sharp and he wore a furious scowl. John pretended not to notice his mood. "So?" he asked.

"Lestrade's a bloody idiot," he snapped.

John couldn't help the fact that he felt a bit relieved.

"What happened?" he asked.

"The answer was right under his bloody nose!"

John sincerely hoped that in this context "bloody" was an exclamation and not an accurate descriptive word.

Sherlock started down the sidewalk, looking for a cab to hail. John rose from the bench, Toby following him. "Yes—the answer was so obvious it wasn't even worth my coming. I solved it right there at his desk." John and Toby caught up to him as he spotted a cab and waved. "It was so obvious! The housekeeper had access to everything. She had the key, didn't she? And of course the jar of Post-It Notes were simply one of those details the Yard has the audacity to label 'irrelevant'!" Toby started to wander to the left. John tugged him gently back. "My entire morning has been wasted on a dog and an idiot."

"Got you out of the house, didn't it?" John had to tug Toby again; the dog was sniffing the air madly and straining against the string. "Had you excited for a while there."

"Yes—lead me to the palace but don't let me in. I have better things to do than solve Lestrade's petty little problems!" The cab started to pull over beside them.

_Like what? You're just going to be bored again,_ John thought.

"I need a case!" Sherlock moaned.

Toby let out a bark. Suddenly it hit John: Toby recognized something and was trying to go to it. He'd been so busy listening to Sherlock he'd forgotten why he'd taken Toby along in the first place. The dog strained against the lead and John stumbled as he started to follow him down the sidewalk.

Sherlock had already opened the cab door. He stared after John, perplexed. "What are you doing?"

"Sorry, Sherlock—it's Toby, he's pulling on me!"

"So pull him back!"

"I can't—well, it's, I think he's found something!"

"John, where are you going? Come back!"

But Toby was pulling too hard, dashing away down the walk, and John was forced to follow him.


	6. Chapter 6

"_John, where are you going? Come back!"_

_But Toby was pulling too hard, dashing away down the walk, and John was forced to follow him._

Chapter Five

John stumbled after Toby as the dog bolted through the crowded sidewalk. "Sorry!" he gasped as he bashed into a young man and his wife. "'Scuse us!" he cried as Toby yanked him between two women chatting under a shop eve. "Pardon, 'scuse us, sorry!" he called to everyone in ear shot as Toby pulled him along.

He looked ahead as often as he cold, trying to read Toby's body language, and trying to see who it was they were following. It seemed that Toby's owner should have noticed them by now—what with the disturbance they were making—or at least heard Toby's incessant barking and turned to see her dog hurtling toward her. But John couldn't see anyone who seemed to recognize Toby. He couldn't even tell who they were chasing.

And the more he looked at Toby, the more the dog seemed not excited, but—determined. Like he was performing a service or going on a mission. Not the ecstatic, wriggling ball of "I found you, I found you! Take me home!" that John had been scrutinizing him for all day. What was going on?

The crowd thinned as Toby pulled him towards a bus stop at the corner of the street. He thought he caught a glimpse of someone turning their head to look back at Toby. Toby pulled the leash furiously and John crashed right into somebody. The string slipped from his fingers and he sprawled on the ground with his unfortunate victim.

"Oh!" he heard a voice say and recognized it immediately as Molly Hooper. "Oh, dear! Are you alright?"

"Yes—yes!" John wheezed, rising to his hands and knees. Molly was staring at him, also on hands and knees, as they both tried to catch their breath. "Sorry about that—"

"No, it was entirely my fault! I should have been watching where I was going!"

"No, no, it was me," John said, standing and looking frantically around for Toby. "Sorry but—"

"Are you alright? I'm just so embarrassed!"

"No need." John helped her up, still looking past her for Tony. "Listen, did you see a-?"

"Your pants are ripped," Molly said.

John looked at her. "So's your sleeve. Sorry."

"No, it's my fault," she insisted. John tried to end the conversation with a nod and sheepish grin. He had to find Toby! But Molly wouldn't let him go.

"I just feel terrible, especially because it's you. I mean, not like it would have been better if it were someone else—but I know you. Well, but bumping into a stranger is just as bad, I mean, but your Sherlock's friend and—not like he even matters right now, it's just—"

"Molly!" John said. She froze and stared at him. "I had a dog with me."

"Oh!" she cried. "Where is it?"

"That's what I'm trying—"

"Which way did it go?"

"I don't know. I think -" he glanced around "—right."

"Then, let's go find it!"

John and Molly pushed their way through the crowd toward the corner. A bus was just pulling out from the curb and going down the street. As they reached the bus stop John could see Toby sitting by the bench, watching the bus disappear. He hurried over to the dog and knelt beside him.

"You alright, Toby?"

He asked, searching him for signs of distress. Toby glanced at him briefly before looking back in the direction the bus had gone. He seemed fine; no visible scrapes. John picked up the string and sat, exhausted, on the bench.

Molly stood awkwardly to the side. "Is…that your dog?" she asked tentatively.

"Wha—no, he's not my dog," John said. "He's—I'm trying to figure out whose he is."

"Oh," Molly said. She looked confused but, of course, too polite to say anything. John took a breath and explained to her what had happened so far that day. She stared at Toby a moment, then knelt beside him to let him sniff her. He did so, listlessly, and allowed her to stroke his head.

"Who was her running after?" she asked.

"Don't know," John said. "Must've got away though."

"On the bus," Molly reasoned. "That's why he stopped here."

John hadn't thought of that—hadn't had time to think, really—but it did make sense. If only anything else would!

"Could it have been his owner?" Molly asked.

"Maybe. I don't know. He seemed—desperate, but not quite…I don't know. I just have a feeling it might not have been. She would have _noticed_ him, you know? With all the noise he was making."

"Right," Molly said. "But if Sherlock's right and—" she blushed and ducked her head, as if ashamed to have said "if" when talking about Sherlock's accuracy—"and his owner does live alone, who else would he recognize?"

"Maybe a friend," John said. "Someone who would visit? Or someone he knows from the park?"

Molly shrugged helplessly. John leaned back on the bench and sighed.

"It's such a shame that he'd get lost," Molly said. "Have you put in an ad yet?"

John shook his head. Toby lay down with a moan, still staring—it almost looked like he was _glaring_—after the bus.

"I know someone who works at a shelter," Molly said. "An animal shelter. She might be able to help."

"Huh?" John said. He appreciated Molly's desire to help, but he wasn't sure what that had to do with it.

Again Molly looked abashed, as if she'd just said something stupid. "Well, it's just that, since he's a mutt, he's obviously not from a breeder. So maybe he's a rescue dog. It's just a hunch, really, but they do keep records there of the dogs they adopt out, and they might be able to find—and that's assuming he even came from there—"

"Oh!" John said, sitting up straighter. "Yes, Molly, that's a really good idea."

She smiled, shyly pleased. "Well, but it might not work though."

"It's certainly worth a try," John said. He wondered why that had never occurred to him. "Thank you. How soon could you get in touch with your friend?"

"Today or tomorrow. She might not be home."

John nodded. "Alright, thanks. Tell me what you find out."

"Okay." Molly gave Toby one last pat before rising to her feet. "Well—sorry again for bumping into you."

"No, I'm sorry," John insisted. And—because they were both sorry, both tired, both irritated and both relieved—they shared a laugh before parting ways. John picked up Toby this time and carried him to the curb, waving for a taxi. When he got inside Toby merely flopped onto the seat and lay there. He didn't press his nose to the window like he had earlier. He just…lay there.

John's mobile chirped at him and he pulled it out. There were three new texts from Sherlock. One was from twenty minutes ago. John guessed that was shortly after Toby had pulled him away.

_I'm not coming after you, _the first one read. John laughed derisively. Of course not, he thought. He deleted that one.

The second one was _When you come back that dog had better not be with you._

Deleted.

Third one: _Done chasing geese yet? I have a job for you._

John texted back, _On my way. _

* * *

John carried Toby up the stairs into the flat and set him on the rug in front of the fireplace. Toby got up and moseyed in a few tight circles before settling down again with a sigh.

"'S alright, boy," John murmured. "Good Toby."

"John!" Sherlock suddenly appeared behind him. John jumped. "Oh—sorry, what is it?"

Sherlock cast a disapproving look at the dog but made no remarks about it. "I need you to do something for me," he said.

John stood up to face him. "What?" he asked again, irritated. He was tired of having to force things out of his flatmate.

"Watch the eyeballs. I'm going out."

"What—where? Why?"

"I put them in a solution. If they melt, text me immediately." He paused. "Text me if they shrivel, too."

John shuddered. "What for?"

"It's an experiment." Sherlock started for the door.

"Can't you do it yourself? Where are you going?"

"Out. There's a piece I'm missing…" He closed the door behind him.

_Piece of what? _John wondered, but decided he did NOT actually want to know.

At least Sherlock had found something to do that didn't involve shooting things. John sighed and flopped onto the couch. He watched Toby as the dog lay, eyes half-closed and staring listlessly at nothing. Who had he been chasing? If not his owner, then who? And why? What was this little dog's story?

John stood and walked over to his laptop. It was time to send out the ad.

* * *

It was much later when Sherlock got back. He threw his coat on the couch. The dog looked at him from the rung by the hearth. His tail thumped against the floor. Sherlock ignored it.

"John?" he said.

The dog got up and waddled over to him.

Sherlock continued to ignore it and walked not the kitchen, looking around. John wasn't in there. He checked the jar of eyes on the counter. They were shriveled like raisins.* No! Sherlock clutched his head. Hadn't he _specifically ordered _John to text him if this happened? It was far too late to remedy it now! The experiment was ruined and he had to start over from scratch! With new eyeballs and all!

He stormed into the sitting room. "John?" he shouted. "Where are you?"

John wasn't there, nor had he been for some time, it seemed. His laptop was closed. The desk was tidy. In fact everything was. So John had left with a purpose in mind. Had been thinking about it. Had a reason. Sherlock growled, irritated. What so be more important as to warrant that much thought and take John away from the important things—like watching the eyeballs?!

The dog made an irritating noise. Hang on, the dog was still here. And after all the fuss John had been making about it, he wouldn't leave it alone for long. So he'd be on his way back soon, as he'd already been gone for a significant amount of time. Sherlock could berate him then.

Still only partially satisfied, Sherlock perched on the couch and clasped his hands before his face. He would have to wait for John, as usual. Irritating. But necessary.

The dog made another uncalled-for noise. Sherlock glared at it. It was sitting in front of him with its mouth open. Its absurdly long tongue dangled from between its teeth and it was making huffing sounds as it breathed.

"What?" Sherlock snapped as it continued to stare at him. If it responded to John's commands, maybe it would leave Sherlock alone if he spoke rudely to it.

But it just sat there, gawking at him.

Sherlock tried to tune it out but the huffing was incessant. He turned his stony gaze to meet the dog's and tried to stare it down. But the dog just lowered its head slightly and stared right back.

What was inside that animal's head? Sherlock wondered. The brain of the dog was nowhere near as sophisticated as that of a human. And yet humans continued to insist illogically that dogs could "understand" humans. True, they could follow orders, but that was a mechanistic response to tone, inflection, and body language, reinforced by the desire to please the human in order to accomplish only two things: gain food and avoid corporal punishment.

The dog continued to stare at him. Had it been human, Sherlock would have thought it was examining him as intently as he was it.

Its misty brown eyes were vastly inferior to that of a human's. It could not possibly see as much as Sherlock could if they looked at the same scene. And yet its senses of hearing and smell could outmatch his. Interesting.

What was going on inside that dog's head? Was it thinking? Could dogs think? Certainly some regions of the brain lit up when activated by the appropriate stimuli, but is that the same as thinking? Was a dog capable of gathering data within its own Mind Palace and drawing logical conclusions by sorting out the unnecessary and categorizing the relevant?

He heard the door open and straightened as John entered with a bag full of groceries. As he had been to the grocery only that morning, Sherlock realized the contents of the must be for Toby. Only dog-related supplies would have been "needed" at this point, as the dog had been received after the shopping had already been done.

"How long is he staying then?" Sherlock asked. "Does he need _all_ of that?"

John jumped. "Oh, Sherlock," he said after recovering. "It's just some things he'll need. Only enough to last a few days."

"A few _days?_" Sherlock cried. "You mean this dog will be staying in the flat _over night?_"

John stared at him as though confused and set the bag down on the coffee table. Toby the dog was running around his feet. "Well…unless his owner calls, which is unlikely. It's already past eight and I only sent out the ad an hour or so ago."

"But he can't stay, John!"

"He won't. Just until his owner comes for him."

"But that could take hours! Days even!"

John rolled his eyes and walked into the kitchen with his bag. The dog followed him with its nose in the air. Obviously it could smell the food. "I sent out the ad," John said. "If the owner's around, she'll find it. And she'll come here. And she'll take this _infernal nuisance_ away."

Sherlock didn't like the sarcasm in John's voice. It was as if John was mocking him. And Sherlock did not like being mocked. He walked into the kitchen and pointed to the jar full of is ruined experiment.

"Why did you leave them unattended?" he demanded.

All he got was a derisive laugh. Sherlock glared at the dog, who huffed back at him. It was as if he and John were sharing a laugh, and that laugh was aimed at Sherlock so that he could not join in.

The dog and John were ganging up on Sherlock.

And Sherlock did not like that. At all.

* * *

*Note: I have no idea if anything could actually make eyeballs react in this way, but I couldn't resist the reaction it would get out of Sherlock.

**Author's Note**

What do you think? Is it alright? Am I doing a good job? Is it terrible? Is it getting better or worse?


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N**

**I'm really sorry this took me so long to get up there, and now that it's finally here, for how short it is, but life gets in the way sometimes. Anyway here it is. I hope you like it. **

* * *

Chapter Six

John finished putting the groceries away and walked over to his desk. He opened his laptop and sat down. Toby was happily chewing on the new chewer that John had bought him—he knew it would irritate Sherlock, and make him think Toby was here to stay, but the dog needed some amusement. What if he was still here and Sherlock got a big case? They could be gone all day, or a few days, and Mrs. Hudson didn't have the time to do much more than come up three times a day to feed him and take him out to walk.

John checked his email, and was surprised to see that an email from Molly had arrived just a few minutes ago. That girl was much more skillful than anyone gave her credit for. John opened the email.

_John,_

_I rang up my friend and asked her if she could find the adoption records for the last year or two. She's very much an overachiever and looked them up right then and there, so I have the information I was hoping to get—middle-aged women who adopted mutts named Toby (they document the breeds but if it's not purebred they just say "mutt", so I couldn't narrow it down by his appearance—sorry). I've copied it down here. I hope it helps._

_If it's not too much trouble will you let me know how it goes? I would like to know how Toby is getting on._

_Molly H._

_PS I went ahead and omitted the ones I knew were wrong—like purebred Tobies, Tobies that were too young or too old, ones bought by men—but let me know if I was too presumptuous with that, and I'll send them over too. M_

_PPS Isn't Toby a frightfully common name for a dog?_

John pulled out a pad of paper and jotted down the information Molly had written in the email. There were three possibilities: three women who had bought mutts named Toby during different periods over the last two years. He had the names of the women and the dates they had adopted the dogs, but no other information. All of the names were unfamiliar to him. He chewed the tip of his pencil and glanced over at the dog, happily gnawing his chewer. He looked into the kitchen at where Sherlock sat brooding over the eyeballs.

"Sherlock," he called over.

Sherlock didn't reply.

"Sherlock—I need your help."

Sherlock grunted. John took this as a sign that he was listening.

"I'm looking at possibilities of people who may be Toby's owner. Would you happen to know any of them?"

"Of course not, John!"

"How can you know?" John demanded. "You haven't even seen the list yet!"

"But I know that no one I know is on there, as no one I know is a woman who has owned a dog named Toby for the past two years."

It took John quite a while to decipher the ungainly sentence.

"But can't you help me figure out which one it is?" he asked at last.

Sherlock jumped out of his chair and walked into the sitting room, shooting a glare at John. "I'm not going to play your boring little games," he snapped, flinging on his coat. "If you want to waste your time doing what the papers are already doing, you will not waste mine in addition."

"But—" John started. Sherlock held up his hand to stop him. "I need to remedy your mistake," Sherlock said. "I haven't the time to assist you."

"But Sherlock, I need your help. I help you out often enough; I need your deductive powers to help me solve this!" He was being partially sarcastic, and he knew that would not help him, but he could not hide his irritation at this point.

Sherlock flashed him a smile. "Surely you've picked up some of my 'powers', as you call them, in our time together," he said. "Solve it yourself."

"But I don't know how!"

"My dear John," Sherlock said, "you know my methods. Apply them." He walked out the door.

John sat glaring after him a moment, then slowly turned back to his laptop. Toby had paused in his chewing during the argument and come to his side, looking up at him expectantly. John reached down to scratch his ears, thinking of Sherlock's words.

_You know my methods—apply them._

Could John, simply by following the process Sherlock had described to him so many times, do what Sherlock did?


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Seven

_Janet Hutchison_

_ Lily Tomson_

_ Kelly Taylor_

What could John make of it?

Toby lay at his feet sighing, as if concentrating just as hard, though John was fairly certain the dog was asleep. John tried to think of how Sherlock would go about doing this.

Of course—he would make John go to their houses and interview them. John shook his head. That was not going to happen. But—perhaps they had blogs or other social media connections. He could look them up.

Feeling like a terrible snoop John turned to his laptop and looked up the ladies. He found a few Janets Hutchison, but only one that seemed to match the age and place requirements Sherlock had deduced. Even so all he could find on her was a news story on an online newspaper about how her house had burned down. She'd since moved to an apartment at the edge of the city…with her dog. John's hopes rose and he jot this one down. Too bad he didn't know her number; perhaps he could find her in a directory later.

Lily Tomson was a librarian and had a blog about her live in the country with her "well-read" hounds. It was painfully quaint. And she did not live in an apartment. The blog had with several pictures of her dogs. John checked the captions and found a picture of her Toby—an enormous German shepherd-ish beast.

Well, chuck her off the list. Progress!

Encouraged, he typed in Kelly Taylor's name.

And found absolutely nothing.

There were Kellies Taylor all over the place—_what a blasted generic name, _he though—but they were mostly Americans living in California or something, shown with pictures of boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands, kids, embarrassing "Hey, I'm single" shots—stories of their multiple cats or _gorgeous _purebred Retrievers—but nothing, nothing that suggested at all there was a Kelly Taylor that lived in an apartment near London with a little mutt named Toby.

John rubbed his temples after the half-hour-long slog through all those Kellies Taylor. A blasted American name. Why couldn't he find her? Wouldn't she stand out among Londoners? Was she American or were her parents? Why was there nothing about her—no news stories, no blogs, no web sites, nothing? Had Molly made a mistake? Or had Sherlock? This just wasn't fitting with anything. Either Kelly Taylor had nothing to do with Toby, or Sherlock had been wrong with his deductions.

The latter John could not believe. And the former he didn't _want_ to believe.

It was odd, but perhaps living and working with Sherlock Holmes for so long made him always expect the _least_ likely solution to be the one; somehow he felt that this Kelly Taylor person was the one.

But finding nothing that matched, what could he do about it?

He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. Toby shifted slightly below him and let out a long, deep sigh. John felt a pang of sadness for the poor little dog. He knew that the ad was circulating out there, but he still doubted that Toby's owner would see it. If she were so devoted to her dog, why wouldn't she have posted her own ads for it?

Was something preventing her?

John shook his head and decided to look up Janet Hutchison. He closed his laptop and got up to search for the directory. Finding several Janets Hutchison, he narrowed it down to three by address. He pulled out his phone and made the calls.

The first one was easy—he deleted her by her voicemail. It was in a man's voice, giving his name as Peter and saying neither he nor Janet were there to pick up the phone. Well, Toby's owner was not married, so he happily crossed on Janet off his list and looked into the other two.

That's when things went a little less swimmingly. Neither were around to answer their phones so he had to leave a message to both of them, stuttering like an idiot, trying to let them know he'd found a dog but not knowing how to explain why he'd called _them _without seeming like a snoop or some kind of weird creeper.

He hung up and sighed. He felt no further along than he'd been before the calls. He could just hear Sherlock scoffing at him and telling him to let it alone, but he couldn't. He'd found Toby, he'd found this mystery, and he had to find the answer to it.

This mystery. How did Sherlock do it?

Well, to start, he was organized. John frowned at his messy pile of scribbles scattered over his laptop. He walked back to his desk and sat, careful not to disturb Toby, whose legs were twitching in his sleep. He pulled out a fresh piece of paper and drew a chart with the two names on it. He stared at it a moment, trying to decide how to write it out. _Organized…okay, what else does he do? _He discards the useless information and gathers the helpful. _Alright…_

Janet Hutchison: Middle-aged single woman; lives in apartment at the edge of the city.

Matches description deduced by Sherlock.

Kelly Taylor: ?

Well, that helped a lot! John felt like chucking the paper across the room but didn't out of respect for Sherlock and his methods. Obviously he just didn't have enough information; and Sherlock was constantly reprimanding John: "One cannot make an educated deduction when one does not have sufficient details."

Details, well…details.

Were there little things John had overlooked?

He picked up the directory again and the addresses of the two Janets that he'd circled. The names of the apartments were there. Of course! John re-opened his laptop and searched the name of the second Janet's apartment.

It had a strict "No Dogs Allowed" policy.

John felt like a hero. Ha! He'd solved that little dilemma. Energized again, he wrote down the other Janet's address on his chart, along with her phone number. He wondered if he should call that second Janet to tell her to ignore his message. But she probably would anyway, he'd sounded like such a jerk. John brushed the memory away and tried to focus on what he had.

He looked up the other apartment's web site and found that its policy was more lenient, allowing "well-trained" animals to live in the building. Well, Toby was certainly well-trained. If only that Janet would call! John's heart beat faster when he thought of her calling and saying that Toby was hers—returning Toby to his home!

_Calm down, John, _he told himself. _You still don't know. It may be neither one of these. Or it still may be that Kelly Taylor. _But he'd narrowed it down—sort of—and was closer than he had been. He thought of showing Sherlock his results. That would make the detective pause. Then, perhaps, he would be intrigued enough to look into this with John.

John tidied up his desk and decided to make some tea while waiting for Janet Hutchison to call him. _If_ she called him. And if she didn't, couldn't he go to her address? Well—maybe not. He didn't want to seem…weird.

Janet seemed like such a good lead, so why couldn't he find anything on Kelly Taylor? Anything that made sense, that is.

_No use brooding about it_, he told himself. He couldn't help it, of course—now he knew how Sherlock felt on a case. No wonder he was so moody; no wonder he'd ignore John and snarl at him when he tried to help.

Although John would have felt better if he'd had someone he could talk to about it. Maybe he could call Molly—she had asked him to tell her how Toby was getting on. But no, he'd already bothered her enough for one day.

John shook his head and got up yet again from his desk and headed for the kitchen to make that tea.


End file.
